


And Lead Me Not Into Temptation

by bloodrunsred



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst and Feels, Bittersweet Ending, Bottom Morty Smith, Bottom Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty), M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Rape Aftermath, Rape Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Morty Smith, Unresolved Emotional Tension, as in neither person consents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23226430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: In which Rick is forced to do something he doesn't want to and Morty is forced to shoulder the burden with him - until push comes to shove and Rick remembers that memory isn't quite as permanent as people think.He hopes Morty will be sad to see him go.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez & Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 45
Kudos: 113





	1. well i didn't tell anyone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GhostyGooGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GhostyGooGirl/gifts).



> guys, it's been a rough month.
> 
> i split with my girlfriend. i lost my job. i lost a lot of inspiration. i just want to thank you guys for being a constant source of source and inspiration just on your own as i work through things. this year, i think, has already taken a lot out of everyone, and i want to support you through my writing, even if it's just a five minute distraction from everything that's happening and a pleasant way to fill time during quarantine.
> 
> take a deep breath and remember that, even if you think no-one else cares or recognises you in this world, i do and i love you for breathing life into the stories i create. we can get through this.
> 
> a commission for GhostyGooGirl! I hope you love it babe <3

Sweltering doesn’t even begin to describe it.

The room they’re in is boiling, steam fogging the one-way glass (yeah, he  _ knows _ ) that he tries to press himself against for even a semblance of the coolness he’s too often taken for granted. 

Rick is panting like a dog, sweat dripping down his brow as he curses out everything and everyone in a crude attempt at regaining the control he had lost far too quickly for his liking, in this place. Morty whines from beside him, his t-shirt damp and clinging to his skin even though he’s fanning himself furiously with his hands. Rick will never understand the kid: within five minutes, his coat and sweater had been peeled away (his coat wrapped around his thin waist for easy access to the few things that were left in its pockets).

“Where--where even are we, Rick?” Morty asks, pressing his face into the cold metal floor of the room they’ve been trapped in. “Why is it so  _ hot _ ?”

They haven’t been awake for long.

Whoever has them doesn’t fuck around, and while he and Morty had been knocked out, they had moved quickly and efficiently, deactivating the majority of Rick’s offensive augmentations, and robbing him of his precious inventions.

He doesn’t have much of anything in this room: but, then again, nothing is what Rick is used to working with.

“Shuddup, Morty,” Rick grumbles, still rummaging through his memories.The planet they had been originally on their way to visit, Beelzeb, isn’t a particularly exciting one. Its inhabitants are vaguely related to Gromflomites in height and the structure of their more insect-based bodies, but they don’t have any ties to the Federation at all: which means--if it even is them, though Rick is sure most inhabitants this square of the galaxy aren’t developed enough for this stunt--this has to come from someplace personal.

But what?

Rick feels unsettled like he rarely ever is, wracking his brain to remember what it was he had done here on this planet that had made them so eager to trick them into this room and then crank the heat until it feels like there is a furnace boiling away under Rick’s skin, hidden away in his brain and making it terribly, horribly hard to think.

Then again, that could have very well been intentional on their part.

Morty groans uncomfortably, splaying his limbs out as far as he can, presumably to stop his limbs insulating each other with the heat that is threatening to suffocate the both of them, but he doesn’t speak again and he doesn’t remove his shirt, and Rick is grateful that he isn’t posing too much of a distraction while he takes a break from his thoughts to scan the room.

It looks like a repurposed operating theatre, white and sterile but lacking any tools or equipment that he could use to get both him and Morty out of there. There’s an operating bed in the middle of the room bolted to the floor, but there are no sheets or anything like that to indicate that its purpose is, in fact, for medical use. Curiouser and curiouser, Rick steps forward, away from the window, to look at it carefully. If he can pry it apart at all, then he can probably do a little bit of something--if he can repurpose the wiring in his false arm as well, he thinks idly, stretching to lay his palm flat against the metal-

Big mistake.

Rick yelps and tears his hand away, growling under his breath as he cradles his smarting hand close to his chest. Morty raises his head slightly, watching him with half-lidded eyes that try their best to convey concern. Rick doesn’t appreciate it: he doesn’t need pity or concern over a rookie mistake, a dumb miscalculation because he gets so caught up in the whirlwind that it’s hard to see clearly.

He strides back over to the mirror, and twitches in annoyance at the chafing feeling of his rough pants sticking to his sweaty legs. 

“Okay, dickheads!” Rick calls out, the words tight and promising pain, tapping the glass and wondering whether it would be a good idea to run at it in an attempt to break it. “You got us, just tell us what we did so we can blow you and be on our merry way!”

Low buzzing sounds through the glass along with the cracking of limbs, which immediately grabs Rick’s attention. These creatures, while mundane and boring to the point where Rick yawns just thinking about them, aren’t unintelligent. They plan things, work on problems quickly and efficiently, and while they aren’t geniuses they are smart enough to know that Rick can hear them and understand them. 

Since they haven’t seen a trace of the eggs he came here for (with Morty trailing along behind him reluctantly), he wouldn’t even be surprised if that was a carefully manufactured trap too.

“Riiiiick,” Morty whines, tossing his head to and fro, his curls plastered against his skull with moisture. “Can we go home now?”

“ _ Morty _ ,” Rick warns him, before tapping on the glass again. “Until I get a chance to see these bastards and, you know, negotiate a bit, you need to stop pissing me off. Okay?”

Morty whimpers pathetically but does as he’s told, which is a balm to Rick’s bruised and tattered ego. He must have had way too much to drink if he had allowed himself to be captured by a fucking Beelzebubian; in fact, he’s pretty sure that he’s sweating alcohol at this point.

Rick wipes at his head with the sleeve of his lab coat before untying it from his waist. Dignity put aside for the moment, he stumbles out of his pants as well, which are tossed into a corner like their very existence is an insult; which he’s almost certain it is. “Come out, come out, wherever you bastards are!” he sing-songs, before he lets the facade slip through his fingers like he’s attempting to keep the ocean in his palm: “We didn’t fucking do anything, so let us go!”

_ “Wrong!”  _ A body slams against the glass, startling Rick enough that he almost topples over before righting himself, panting heavily and glaring at the Beelzebubian that spoke as the mirror blinks out of existence and allows Rick to see what he’s dealing with.  _ “You think you are here because you are victimless? Because your soul is clean? Wrong!” _

Rick… isn’t impressed.

“What the  _ fuck _ is that thing?” Morty cries out, kicking away from the window even though Rick knows he’s overheating like it’s going out of style. “Rick, pl-please tell me you can understand that thing and tell him that this--that all of this is just a huge misunderstanding, okay?”

Morty obviously feels differently but Rick ignores him, focusing on the alien in front of him with knife-sharp focus.

“ _ You seduced our Queen until she left our hive seeking you, only to die without us there to provide for her, and ensure her safety,”  _ the Beelzebubian buzzes, anger warping the already rough and difficult language into something that Rick is almost unable to translate.  _ “You missed the remains of what used to be our home in your arrogance, and we have led you here, to our false home where we shall spend the rest of our days, never continuing our bloodlines. Where you will pay the price for the damage that cost us with your treacherous body.” _

“Wow, way to make for a boring exposition,” Rick said absently, thinking hard. “Like, seriously, learn to make that shit interesting. Work it into the plot.”

He couldn’t think of…  _ oh. _

So Rick maybe, kind of remembers that. Sleeping with the Queen had been necessary at the time in order to seize some very interesting gifts from the Galactic Federation, who had been asking for the Beelzebubians to join them in their attempts to control most of the known and mapped galaxy. The Beelzebubians were naturally inclined to peace and had been refusing: they hadn’t had any need for a weapon that could liquefy organic matter or, when Rick managed to get his hands on it, liquefy only a certain part of a creature’s anatomy.  _ Cough, cough, dicks, cough, cough. _

He hadn’t known that she had left to go after him, though! He might have hit her up if he had known: she was a very generous lover, and Rick’s biggest kink--aside from leather--is someone giving up their everything for him. Their souls, their homes, their dreams…

“So you decided to heat me up, huh?” Rick grabs at his crotch through his underwear, flipping off the emaciated looking alien as he thrusts his hips forward mockingly. “Bet it gets you going that I’m all stripped down, huh?”

He brushes away the fact that they tricked him--he’s irrationally grateful that Morty can’t understand this asshole, he realises when Morty continues blubbering in the corner--and files it away for safekeeping. Not that it matters much at all, since the species will be dying out soon. An evolutionary mistake: the Beelzebubians are known for their reasonably average lifespans, while their Queen’s life would extend over generations. When she was close to dying, she would give birth to a single female heir to carry on the task of populating the entire planet. “Is that it then?”

The Beelzebubian puffs up, his pincers clicking and clacking in his anger. Rick doesn’t give a shit. And yeah, maybe that’s not the healthiest mindset to have--but they’ve already established his idea of healthy is vastly different from the majority. There’s no  _ irrational attachment  _ that will save this fucking creature, not a merciful bone in his body.

Speaking of bodies...   


_ Paying the price with his treacherous body,  _ huh? Well, it won’t be the worst punishment he’s ever faced. In fact, if he’s catching what they’re throwing, it might make it as one of his top three favourite torture methods.

“What, so you wanna fuck me? Is--is that what this is?” Rick has been responding in English, too flushed to consider tearing his vocal chords apart for an alien that can understand him just fine either way--even if he refuses to  _ degrade  _ themselves by actually speaking the damn language. “Fine. Just let me out, a-and the kid go, and we can get down to-”

_ “Not us, Sanchez,”  _ the Beelzebubian rears back in what can only be fear or disgust, as though Rick has forced a gun against his head or a knife to his throat. Then his glassy compound eyes narrow threateningly, gaze sliding from him to… Morty.  _ “We were fond of our Queen, you know. And you seem particularly fond of your little pet there.” _

“First of all, shut the fuck up,” Rick says, attempting to cross his arms over his chest only to drop his arms immediately because of the fucking  _ heat.  _ “Second of all, even if you were right--which you’re really fucking not, by the way--what does that have to do with me sucking your-”

The Beelzebubian sighs like he doesn’t like being forced to explain himself to inferior beings; Rick is well aware of the sound, mostly because he probably invented using it in this part of the universe.  _ “Use him as you used us,”  _ he says.  _ “And you may walk out of here unscathed.”  _

Are they seriously suggesting that he fucked them over, so he had to fuck Morty? His  _ grandson _ ? Was this bastard actually suggesting that he--that he rape his fucking grandchild?

And he thought  _ he  _ was sick.

“No,” Rick says, his teeth grinding together as he fights the urge to slam his head into the glass, shattering it and pulling that fucking scum through the broken pieces to gouge his eyes out with them. He knows not to try it, though, because the glass is quite obviously thick, and if he caves his skull in then there’s no one to take care of Morty. “No fucking way. You don’t honestly expect me to think you’re actually being serious, do you? A-are you fucking insane?”

Morty looks between him and the figure behind the glass. “Rick?” he says timidly. “I--what’s happening?”

Rick ignores him in order to throw a punch at the wall when the alien speaks next:

“ _ Then the heat kills you both and what remains of my people can do what they will with your corpses,”  _ the Beelzebubian shrugs as best he can.  _ “Your crime was severe, and I am letting you off easy by just requesting you... entertain me.” _

“Fuck you, you sick fucking bastards,” Rick snarls, his fingers itching to grab ahold of a gun that has long since been stripped from his possession, pacing like a wild animal trapped in a cage, trembling with barely restrained anger. “He’s my fucking grandson, you--you assholes!”

Morty looks afraid, but lethargic; he scoots away from Rick--sending a confusing mixture of anguish and pity shooting through Rick’s chest--looking like his elbows might buckle and leave him laying helpless and defenceless on the floor. Looking on as dispassionately as he can, Rick is quick to realise that Morty  _ is  _ helpless and defenceless, and he hates to acknowledge that he should have never come to this place.

Because, at the very least, Rick has his augmentations (while the offensive side was stripped back, it can’t be disabled entirely without him losing his arms) fighting to keep his body temperature as low as possible, and he has a plethora of medicines that will kick in if he loses consciousness. As much as he experiments on Morty, he hasn’t tampered with him like that. Not permanently.

When Morty lost an arm, Rick grew it back organically. When he got sick with a disease that caused blindness, Rick didn’t give him the robotic eyes he has tucked away in his lab; he cured him, even though it took more time and effort, even though he probably wouldn’t be that patient with anyone else.

“What--what’s it saying, Rick?” Morty asks nervously, slumped against the wall like a child’s doll forgotten in a playroom. His head lolls and his eyes are glassy, and Rick has never been so petrified. “‘S it gonna-” he cuts himself off, looking small and afraid, and Rick swallows back the insult that is curdling in the back of his throat like spoiled milk. “Is it gonna kill us?”

It won’t. Not if Rick does what it wants, which incidentally… might fuck up Morty’s life anyway.

Rick always has an answer, but this time… he looks at Morty, and then back at the Beelzebubian. “I’ll kill you.”

The threat is hard, cold, a stark contrast to the room, and the Beelzebubian laughs.  _ “I am dying, Sanchez. Why do you think I am so willing to capture you like this? And offer to set you free afterward? No, I died with my Queen and you shall live with your memories, even if you kill me.” _

“It won’t kill us, Morty,” Rick says, maybe too kindly because Morty chokes on a sob like he doesn’t believe him. “Hey, trust me! We just--fuck--we just have to…  _ do  _ something for it, okay? Calm down.”

_ Don’t think about it  _ is on the tip of his tongue but he can’t force himself to say it because, as hypocritical as he is on a regular basis, he can’t stop thinking about it. It’s flooding his brain and he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know what he can say to make this any better, even by a fraction.

_ Knock him out. _

But does that still play by the rules, if Morty is passed out and blissfully unaware of Rick hurting him and taking him--and for his first time too? He’s inclined to answer no. And with the rising temperature… he doesn’t want to do anything to risk his health more than he already will be.

_ Find a way out. _

Rick’s eyes scan the room like he hasn’t a million times already. But without his inventions, without any opening in the walls and the threat of Morty being targeted if he did manage to get out--because the asshole was watching and as much as Rick loathed to admit it… he wasn’t dumb. Obviously not, since he managed to capture  _ Rick _ .

Morty sniffles and Rick is distracted from his pride for just a second. That second lasts long enough for him to forget himself almost completely, and he… embarasses himself.

He rushes to Morty’s side, dropping to his knees with a painful thud that reminds him of his old age and creaking bones, the tampering with his more dangerous and offensive augmentations making it more difficult for them to recognise their roles outside of combat as well. He’s not going to do this.

Morty is burning up.

He can’t do this--he thinks he’ll throw up if he tries.

Morty is crying, the damp trails on his cheeks blending in with the sweat that’s dripping down his forehead. 

What can he do?

Rick isn’t a huge fan of doing what other people say, but it isn’t like he hasn’t done it before; in fact, he’s really good at it until he can get his petty and unnecessary revenge. But this is new and daunting, and he wonders if it would be worth it just to let Morty die so he doesn’t have to deal with the pain that comes later. It’s a ludicrous thought, hardly a passing fantasy but still… Morty--a while ago, but the memory is still fresh on Rick’s mind--had been touched before by that Jellybean freak, and that had rattled him almost irreversibly.

This is twenty steps beyond groping and name-calling, and… it’s one of those things.

It’ll be rape, Rick knows that: he knows that even if he doesn’t want to do it, he’s still the one making that decision for Morty who is almost incoherent with fever. He might not even understand entirely why Rick has to do this, but Rick… will do it anyway.

“Hey,” Rick murmurs, and Morty cracks his eyes open from where they had slipped shut. “Morty, you--you wanna go home?”

Morty nods, looking young and miserable. Rick is hit with the sudden fact that he had missed this. This wouldn’t have been the first time that Morty’s been sick like this, fever and tears and weakness that Rick refuses to let affect him despite them bearing down on his consciousness. He wonders if Beth had run her fingers through Morty’s hair, put cool cloths on his cheeks, kissed his forehead when he was sick.

He knows she didn’t. She’s too much his daughter. 

The knowledge that it’s weak, deplorable behaviour doesn’t erase temptation though, and Morty whines when he’s lifted, and carried to the operating table. It seems fitting: Rick hasn’t met a surgeon without a god complex, and nearly everyone that finds themself in an operating theatre is afraid, doesn’t want to be there.

But they have no choice. It’ll save their life even if they don’t like it.

Morty is finally spread out on the table, and he’s… hotter than he should be. For all intents and purposes, Rick should be in a similar condition to Morty, but he’s not and there’s no explanation for it.

“What--what did you fucking do to him, you bastard?”

He prods along Morty’s skinny chest and arms, flipping them over even though Morty is clearly less than happy with this arrangement. He pauses at the slight bruise that yellows the inner crook of Morty’s elbow, and the small hole that punctuates its centre. 

“ _ And you get the antidote, _ ” the alien says from behind him, and Rick just growls under his breath, not bothering to waste his eyesight on the fucking prick. “ _ Go on, Rick Sanchez. Though I admit that seeing you like this is amusing, I fear your little friend hasn’t got much longer left--think of it as an extra layer of incentive. _ ”

The great Rick Sanchez, and he’s reduced to his knees over this? He doesn’t have time--even if he could break out, even if he could get them away, manufacturing a cure from scratch would take far too long: years faster than the smartest doctors on the planet, but not fast enough.

Rick would love to protest, but the decision has been made and he doesn’t have a choice. Rick hates not having a choice.

He thinks to himself that Morty will hate it more, that he’ll beg and cry, but what the  _ fuck else  _ is Rick supposed to do?

They’re bugs in an airtight container and he can be  _ gentle,  _ he can be  _ nice,  _ he can do whatever it takes to make this easier to shoulder until he can get home and kill himself fix the memory gun he had broken a little while back, push it into Morty’s face before turning it on himself and pretending the trigger will wash him away as well as his memory.

“FUCK!” Morty rears away from Rick’s voice, almost falling from the table, and Rick feels the poison murder building behind his tongue, helplessness rising up his throat and threatening to choke him. “ _ Fuck.”  _ he says, quieter, pressing his hand flat against Morty’s t-shirt covered flank. He’s sweat through it, and he wants to pick on Morty for his sensibilities; for refusing to remove his shirt even though he probably feels like he’s dying.

“-ick?” Morty blinks up at him, eyes glossy and scared. Rick sighs, and cards his fingers through Morty’s hair in a sick attempt at comfort.

“You’re okay,” Rick says, probably for the millionth time since they woke up here. “Lemme--c’mon, Morty, sit up and I can take your shirt off to cool you down, okay?” He doesn’t pay much attention to how Morty’s fingers are white-knuckled, clutching at Rick’s forearms as Rick maneuvers the shirt over Morty’s head, and tosses it off into the corner.

Morty grumbles half-heartedly, but goes where Rick moves him. “When’re we gonna leave, R-rick?” he says, but Rick can see his eyes drifting closed, can hear the lethargy in his voice. “I don’ wanna take my shirt off.”

“Come on, we’re taking your jeans off too,” Rick ignores him. Morty kicks out when he reaches for the button on his jeans, though, panic lighting up his eyes, making him look more alert than he had been this entire time. Rick ducks his gaze, refuses to meet his eyes. “Morty… do-don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be, okay? Jus’--jus’ close your eyes, and calm down, okay? Just--just calm down.”

There must have been something about Rick’s demeanour that tipped Morty off, because his eyes widen and he flinches away like Rick’s the one burning him.

Rick can’t afford to care. He can’t. He does a million horrible things a day, and this will just be one more thing on the list.

“Rick,” Morty begs, tears slipping out of his eyes to run down his cheeks as Rick fumbles with the button on his jeans numbly. He tries to shuffle away, but the heat in the room has left him weak and slow; Rick knows he’s probably desperate for a drink by now, and a fresh breeze on his skin. “I don’t wanna--Rick, please,  _ don’t-- _ ”

Rick cards his fingers through Morty’s damp curls, smiling as gently as he can, even as he uses his free hand to continue undoing Morty’s jeans. “You’re okay, Morty,” he soothes. “We--I--just need to do this so we can leave. I p-promise, grandpa’s not going to hurt you, okay?”

“No,” Morty cries, curling his hands towards his chest like a dying spider when Rick sits up and tugs his pants off, knocking his shoes off as well, his mouth set in a firm line even as Morty weeps underneath him. “No, no, no,” he moans, sobs coming faster and harsher while Rick steels himself against Morty’s crying, and manipulates him so he’s on his stomach. “Rick--why--I’m scared, I’m scared, I wanna go ho- _ ome.” _

Rick feels like a piece of shit. He’s spent nearly his whole life hating himself, but that is nothing compared to this new loathing. 

“I know,” he says, and he wants nothing more than to leave this fucking planet, razing it into non-existence as he does. “I’ll make it--I’ll make it good, okay? Just pretend it’s someone else.”

He idly wonders if Morty will actually be able to picture someone like fucking  _ Jessica  _ reaming him, but he decides not to pay it too much attention. He just needs to make this quick and easy, make sure Morty doesn’t get hurt or traumatised more than he already is. 

Morty’s still wearing his dumb tightie-whities and socks, his skin flushed pink and warm to the touch. Rick hesitates, his hands stilling over the small of Morty’s back.

Morty presses his face into the bed, his breathing stilted and sobs muffled: Rick rubs his upper back soothingly, even though Morty is tense and afraid, his breath hitching with every touch.  _ Fuck,  _ Rick doesn’t want to do this, but when he feels for Morty’s pulse it’s worryingly slow. “How--how can I make this better, Morty?” Rick whispers in his ear, his body draped over Morty’s. “Tell me and I’ll do it, but I-- _ we _ \--have to do this or-” his voice breaks over the last word, and Rick grinds his teeth together, ashamed and disgusted by his own show of weakness.

Morty shifts, his tears coming harder and faster as he turns on his side, his skinny chest heaving quickly, baby-bird wrists quivering with the exertion of being forced to carry his own weight, however briefly. “Ple- _ ease _ ,” he says softly, body heaving with harsh, guttural sobs. “I don’t even-- _ Rick.” _

Rick can hardly understand what follows next, the words incomprehensible until he’s quieted by Rick’s hushing, Morty’s eyes drooping again when Rick smooths his palm over his forehead.

Morty’s arm gives out and he cries out as his forearm is wrenched painfully under his torso. Rick is quick to rearrange his limbs, but Morty has successfully turned himself back over so that he’s on his back, and Rick is forced to watch his lower lip wobble and his glassy eyes stare unseeingly into the ceiling. “You… you don’t wanna see me do this, Morty,” Rick warns, but Morty doesn’t react: his lips mouth silent words, but he doesn’t look like he sees Rick at all. 

Rick doesn’t know what to do for a moment, until Morty’s arms rise from his side and wrap loosely around his neck. 

He is almost angry. He could have seethed in that moment, red-hot rage and black fear unfurling deep and heavy in his stomach, but blanketed by disgusted pity. Morty is terrified, shaking, about to have one more thing stolen from him…

And he just wants a hug.

Rick sighs, but lets Morty press their bare chests together, his own arms curling under Morty’s, wrapping around his back, fingers tickling the outline of Morty’s ribs. “You’re gonna kill me, kiddo,” he says, regret colouring his voice. The quietness of the room (save for Morty’s slowed sniffling) makes him think that this could maybe be a private shame for him to file away under lock and key, but he knows better. At least they’ll be dead soon, he reassures himself. He won’t let anyone remember Morty like this.

He rubs Morty’s back before easing him down once more. 

“Morty,” he needs to hurry up, but first he needs to remember what it’s like to have a calm, steady heart, and no guilt coating his tongue, slippery like oil and just as foul tasting. “Please--please, can I? I don’t want to, Morty,  _ fuck _ , but I need to, Morty, I-”

“Okay,” Morty whispers, but Rick is taken aback by the waver in his voice and the blind, animalistic panic that darts in his pupils. Morty is a twitchy, nervous little creature, but he feels like one wrong move will have Morty spiralling, lashing out. 

_ He’d seen and killed what was left of that Jellybean prick when Morty was through with him. He’d seen the same rabbity look in Morty’s eyes then too.  _

“Good boy,” Rick says, and means it. Then: “Do you need--do you want me to flip you over, so you don’t have to-”  _ see that it’s me doing this to you? _

Morty shakes his head. “I just--I just want my  _ mom _ ,” he cries, and Rick wraps him up in one, last, tight hug. Morty really hasn’t changed in all their years of adventuring, still crippling blind to his mother’s faults, especially when he needs comfort.

“I’m here, Morty. I’m here for you.”

Rick spits on his fingers, saliva dribbling down his chin because this sadistic motherfucker hasn't given him lube, he hasn't been given anything to ease what will probably be one of their most traumatic shared experiences. Morty's knee comes up when Rick's hand trails down, but Rick manages to catch it with his spare hand, turning Morty's knee out to the side so he can settle deeper in the cradle of Morty's slight hips. 

"Breathe," Rick says, and Morty makes deliberate eye-contact, his flushed cheeks growing pinker as he struggles to hold onto a breath for longer than a second. A finger breaches and Morty sucks in a breath, a gasp that sucks the air out of Rick's lungs too. A finger becomes two and Morty seems like he's in a perpetual state of breathlessness that makes Rick feel predatory--though the real lion at the lamb's throat lays beyond the thick window and reinforced door. "Come on sweetie, you just need to breathe-"

"It-" Rick twists his fingers, searching for the little gland that will make this somewhat easier for Morty to cope with, relax his tense muscles and Morty cuts off with a little grunt. "It doesn't--it doesn't feel good, R-rick."

Morty is ashamed; Rick can see it on his face, plain as day. His tears have dried up, though his breathing is still erratic, and he looks like he's trying his hardest to dissociate. _Good boy._ Rick is hesitant to make him feel good--but not for the reasons that border on selfish, so he still presses his fingers against Morty's prostate when he finds it, letting Morty's mouth fall open in a surprised 'o' that he deliberately ignores.

Alcohol sloshes in his stomach and, not for the first time in his long life, he regrets drinking as much as he did because it makes it more likely that he's going to vomit when this is over.

Or before if he's not lucky.

Rick pulls his fingers out only to spit on them again, running the flat side of his fingers down the sweat coating Morty's sternum in an attempt to gather as much moisture as he possibly can before stretching Morty out with three fingers this time. He turns his head to the side briefly, eyeing the door--still locked. He had hoped--naively, maybe--that this would be enough. A shameful finger bang and subsequent mind wipe wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Fuck, helping Morty smuggle megaseeds would have probably been more intrusive.

"Oh-- _ooh-"_

Morty is obviously not unaffected, his head tossing back until it hits the bed with a heavy thud. Even with the lack of proper grease, Rick has _years_ and _years_ of experience in handling people and aliens alike to bend to his whims and wants, and Rick won't lie and say that he's entirely unaffected either. 

Whether he wants to or not, having a body that's acting like this is entirely consensual, feeling someone willing and pliant and spread under him like something to devour, it makes his just the tiniest bit excited. It's primal and without logical thought, but he can't shake it. He's disgusted by the fact that maybe--just a little bit--his body doesn't realise that it isn't meant to be liking this. 

"Can I--I'm going to touch you, Morty, okay?" Rick tries to fit a fourth finger and closes his free fist around Morty's almost fully-hard cock while he does, causing Morty to nearly bite through his lip in an effort not to yell. Rick almost doesn't blame him: it's no secret in the family that Morty is a virgin, isolated to the point of turning into a ball of jittery nerves whenever he's approached by an interested women. Which happens more often than is convenient for Rick, who is irritated by having to chase off every alien girl that decides to show the young, not unattractive human any interest.

"Please, Rick," Morty whines, his forehead creasing with the effort of coherent thought. "Hurry-"

Morty hisses when Rick pulls his fingers out, maybe just a bit too roughly in his haste, but when Rick looks up, brow furrowed with concern, Morty doesn't look like he's in too much pain; quite the opposite, actually, though he doesn't pay that fact much mind.

What can he say? Rick is good at what he does: though he still worries about hurting 

"Sorry, Morty, sweetie," Rick says, more gently than he would have otherwise when the saliva in his mouth does hardly anything in the way of lubrication. When Morty finds the wherewithal to crack his eyes open and look at him, Rick unceremoniously crams his fingers into Morty's mouth, running his fingers over Morty's molars and tongue. " _There we go..."_

With newly slicked fingers, Rick grabs his cock, still firmly stroking Morty with his other hand, and slicks himself as much as possible. The heat in the room has turned into a new, different kind of burn, one that dances in the air between them when Rick leans forward enough to let his breath mingle with Morty's. 

"I'm ready, Rick, Rick, you can-- _oh shit_ \--so we can go home, right?" Morty pants, and when Rick lets go of Morty's cock to brush his fingers against Morty's cheeks, he feels the tacky dryness of old tear tracks. Morty babbles, and Rick much prefers this incoherent bastard to the Morty that was crying and weak, acting effortlessly like a victim, slipping into the role like he was born into it.

And then inspiration hits Rick like an old friend, a guarantee that he won't hurt Morty--physically at least.

He's stretched Morty out but there's not enough lube, not enough time because he can see fatigue playing on Morty's mind, trampling down his common sense and logical sensibilities. If Morty gets hurt, Rick doesn't think he could ever forgive himself. Though there's little chance of him ever forgiving himself anyway, he figures he might as well try and begin redemption now.

"I have an idea, Morty," Rick says brightly, his own fingers reaching behind him for one, two seconds--or at least it seems that much in the blur of time--and he can all but feel elation sparking behind his eyes, manic glee. "I have an idea."

Morty's cock is throbbing with need, Rick's firm grip around its base stopping him from cumming prematurely: it's slick and wet, the cum that has collected at its head aiding the greased slide of up and down, and Rick's position on top of Morty makes it easy for him to sling his legs over Morty's, knobby knees squeezing the side of his torso. Morty startles when Rick kneels up, his hands coming up to rest on Rick's chest. "Wha-" he cuts himself off with a strangled gasp as Rick kneels down once more, his hastily prepared but infinitely more experienced hole enveloping Morty's cock.

" _Holy fuck--Rick--omigod, Rick--"_

Morty isn't as small as his frame might suggest, Rick notes absentmindedly, not blocking out the small twinges of pain that shoot up his spine but accepting them as though they're some divine punishment. He rocks his hips slightly until Morty sounds like he's been punched in the stomach, and thinks that, if there is a God, this might be the last straw to break the thoroughly abused camel's back. 

Dissociating might not be healthy--he isn't sure, because he's never been dumb enough to fall into the trap of therapy or psychology--but it's the only thing that's keeping him calm, keeping his hands reasonably steady as he presses the heels of his hands into Morty's narrow shoulders, pinning him to the table like a bug might be pinned to a cork board, Morty's own hands dropping until they're wrapped around Rick's wrists, thumb and middle finger almost touching, but not quite.

"Rick, I-" Morty pants, obviously close to orgasm, and Rick...

He's disgusted. He's seen Morty in pain. He's seen Morty sad, he's seen Morty in love and murderous, and yet he had never wanted to see the kid like this. And he's still rock-hard, his body still not taking the fucking hint. He doesn't want to touch himself, but it's almost like he's not in control as the weight of his torso gets transferred to one hand, the other flying down to tease his cock with feather-light touches at first that quickly turn into rough, long, almost brutal strokes that send him over the edge, his hips swivelling and jerking on Morty's cock.

Rick doesn't mind getting fuck, but Morty is tired and inexperienced, and even with the rhythm that Rick has set up, his orgasm feels like cheating. He can almost imagine what Morty feels now--he almost did feel it, almost did get the chance to press his leaking cock into a virgin hole, and he's disgusted by the way his softening cock twitches at the thought--but it's over now. Morty is coming back to himself, the part of him that isn't just a horny teenager peeking through the shadows, present through the way trembling sets into him.

"I--shit," Morty says, looking up at Rick like he's never seen him before. "You--I--"

"Yeah." Rick says lamely. "Yeah, we did."

Rick slips off of Morty, and the kid turns on his side as the aftermath of his orgasm quakes through his body, and Rick flinches at the sniffles that pierce the air sharper than the knife lodged in his shriveled heart. Rick backs up, almost tripping over his own feet as he rushes for his clothes, giving Morty privacy and turning away when he hears Morty following his example.

The door swings open by itself, and it doesn’t take being a genius for Rick to know that the prick who made him do this to Morty has already run away, and he scoffs before turning back to face the bed; it doesn’t matter, though. What matters is Morty, recently dressed in his t-shirt and underwear, staring at his socked feet as small tremors quake through his body.

Rick doesn’t bother slipping his shoes on, fastening his belt instead--a task made infinitely more difficult by his own shaking hands. His lab coat feels safe and at home, and he feels somewhat soothed by its weight on him. He imagines that Morty must feel the same way with his t-shirt, with how he toys at the hemming, twisting and stretching it between his fingers like if he lets go he’ll slip away.

Rick’s older. He’s old. He feels his age in his bones and in his exhausted brain, and he shouldn’t be this moved by someone else’s pain. What does it mean to the universe? 

It might not mean much to the universe but it means a  _ hell  _ of a lot to Rick, he’s beginning to learn.

He walks to Morty’s side slowly, leisurely almost, like he hasn’t a care in the world. Though that’s probably because he’s afraid of coming off like he’s afraid, and he might--might being the strong word--be smart enough that he sees the heart wrenching image that Morty paints.

Any lesser man would turn heel, or at least shoot themselves a hole ear-to-ear, but Rick just sits down beside him. 

“I had my socks on the whole time,” Morty laughs, his shoulders heaving uncontrollably as he giggles, his fingers pressing into his cheeks in an attempt to cover the maniacal grin that Rick can see blossoming on his face. “I--I had them--they were-”

Rick holds his arms out, and Morty falls into them, his desperate laughter dissolving into sobs, broken and fearful, even as he clutches at his tormentor. 

“It’s okay, buddy,” Rick whispers. “You’re safe now. We're safe now.”

If only Morty could be safe from the danger Rick brings with him. 


	2. but a bird flew by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yoohoo big summer blowout
> 
> i'm literally in the middle of rewriting this story's entire ending because i was like "...girl. you can do ghosty better than this, give your audience something to cry about."
> 
> so this is your official warning for tears! so i'll be a little late in publishing that last chapter as i rearrange some things, but quarantine has left me with a lot of time on my hands to make these stories hurt you just the little bit extra. this is a bit of a filler chapter before we get into the good stuff.

Their trip home is silent.

The planet burns behind them, bright and beautiful amongst the stars that are swimming and flowing together, melding and fitting together like pieces in a puzzle, the blues and greens, yellows and oranges, reds and purples gleaming and swirling all around them. If Rick were a painter, he would paint it. He could paint it at home without looking once at the sky because the vision is embroidered in the folds of his brain, tattooed against his eyelids and he can’t look at anything without comparing it to the beauty he more than occasionally takes for granted.

He knows the look on Morty’s face just as well as he does the view just through the window.

Rick doesn’t even have to look at the kid to know that his face is screwed up, his forehead lined with stress and conflicting feelings of fear and trust, his face tear-streaked and his lips almost bitten through from him gnawing on them. 

The thing is, he can’t see Morty’s face. 

It’s not uncommon for Morty to face away with him on their flight home; he often glues himself to the window, trying to spot constellations and familiar planets, and even the occasional space snake. 

But Morty isn’t looking out the window at all: in fact his face is buried in his knees, his mop of brown hair the only part of his head that Rick can see. The kid’s breaths are deep and slow, like he’s asleep, but Rick knows better. He knows Morty like he knows nothing else, years of his life devoted to Morty’s upkeep, even just so he can survive the universe a little bit easier than before.

Before was being hunted--and unlike now, it was riddled with stories of Rick becoming prey again and again and again. Now people hunt Rick, but it’s Rick and Morty, and he’s never blind sighted when he’s with Morty. No, the waif of a boy makes Rick check around corners twice, has him looking carefully for enemies wherever they stand.

So he doesn’t get hurt. Not Rick--he’s never cared much for himself if he’s being honest--but  _ Morty.  _

“Don’t tell your mom about this,” Rick says blandly, flinching at how apathetic he sounds. He had found his flask and weapons in a heap by the door-

*

_ Morty lets Rick lead him by the hand, stepping over forgotten shoes--Rick will get him new ones from that alien store he likes--and stands quietly behind him as Rick rummages through his stuff. It’s all there, because dead men walking don’t have much use for material possessions, but turning it over in his hands makes him feel grounded, more at ease with his reality which has just shifted brutally. _

_ He finds Morty’s pistol in the heap too; it’s a neat little thing he had given Morty for his eighteenth birthday just a few months ago, collapsible and blue with yellow stripes up the side. He thought Morty tucked it away as soon as he had been given it, but when he silently hands it back over to him, Morty tucks the gun into the back of his jeans like he’s done it a million times before.  _

_ “Thanks,” though there’s definitely a warble in Morty’s voice, it’s irregular to Rick who has spent time tracking its pitch and flow, and knows the way Morty stutters down to the slightest waver. He’s too quiet, too eerily calm which means he’s struggling to come to terms with what just happened. Rick knows how he feels, which isn’t something that happens often: he’s usually more than happy to be closed off from Morty’s feelings. Then Morty says, “...Can we go home now, Rick? I really need a shower.” _

_ Rick would never admit it in a million years, but he needs one too. He needs to wash the feeling of grime off his skin, ease the pain of his aching joints and muscles.  _

_ “Fuck yeah, Morty,” he smiles meanly, holding up a small compact cube, ruffling Morty’s hair when he leans in to look. “Let’s blow this place sky high as we do, huh? The Rick and Morty way.” _

_ He doesn’t protest--and that’s the first sign that something is exceedingly, terribly wrong with Morty Smith. _

_ * _

“I won’t tell her,” Morty says, voice muffled by his jeans. “ I promise.” 

That’s the second sign. Rick is cataloguing everything that Morty says and doesn’t say, filing it away for later examination. Regular Morty would have rolled his eyes, screwed his mouth up and asked,  _ “When do I ever tell mom anything we do on adventures, huh? Stop busting my balls, jeez.” _

“Yeah, well,  _ someone  _ has to make sure you don’t completely fuck up our adventures, Mooorty,” Rick says, taking a deep swig from a bottle he finds discarded and half-empty on the floor. “Wha-what am I supposed to do if your mom comes in and tries to poke her nose in my business, huh? Just wait until I get home and can fix up that fucking memory gun that your stupid sister keeps accidentally breaking, then-”

“Wait,” Morty cuts him off, lifting his head up off his knees. “Are you going to take away my memories?”

Rick sends him a nasty glare. “Yes,  _ Mortimer,  _ I’m going to be the responsible adult and not leave you with traumatic memories when I have a way of removing them. Don’t look at me like I killed your dog.”

He’s reminded, just for a moment, that he almost did kill Morty’s dog. It's not really an improvement that the dog is running rampant on another planet.

Morty chews on his bottom lip, looking conflicted. Rick isn’t surprised; he’s had this same conversation with Morty many times over the course of their adventuring, and he’s reacted in similar ways every time he’s been offered the same deal. He takes it, he always does: when Beth is a shitty parent and Rick tells Morty he can make it go away, what is the kid supposed to say? No?

“Rick, I-” Morty cuts himself off, and shrinks back in his seat when Rick side-eyes him. “I don’t know if I want you to do that.”

Rick slams on the brakes, causing Morty to topple out of his seat with a small cry.

Morty is just full of surprises and contradictions now, which is why Rick needs today out of his skull and crammed into a little red vial for revisiting when Rick is ready and willing and able to deal with this shit. 

“What the  _ fuck  _ do you mean, Morty? You wanna live with that shit in your head every day? You wanna go to school and fail even more classes because you can’t get it out of your mind, and the school counsellor has to call you to her office and ask about all that and you break down because you can’t cope not being able to tell your mom, or your sister, or even your dumb dad? Then what am I supposed to do, Morty? I end up having to use the memory gun on everyone or I go to prison,  _ or  _ grandpa is forced to take you and skip universe again. Tell me why I’d want to risk that, Morty, tell--gimme a real good reason I shouldn’t go for the happy ending right off the bat.”

Morty is quiet as Rick’s pants, his hands resting on the steering wheel again from where they had been previously waving in the air, pointing at Morty and spilling his drink which is now laying on the floor, abandoned. Again. 

Rick brings a hand to massage the bridge of his nose when Morty starts crying.

“ _ Fuck,  _ Morty, you’re killing me. Let’s just get home, okay? Let’s just go home and forget this ever happened. Look--look, I’m sorry, alright? Just go to sleep and I’ll-” Rick grits his teeth, but continues as Morty tries to dry his eyes desperately with his shirt. “-I’ll  _ talk  _ to you before we do any memory erasing. Get off my back.”

Morty nods tearfully, and Rick turns to look out the window. 

The sky is just as beautiful as it was when they started flying, but now all he can focus on is Morty’s reflection in the glass.

*

Morty is out the door before they even land, rolling when he hits the asphalt and heading straight for the door like he’s never wanted to be anywhere more. Rick lurches to a drunken stop, half burying the ship in the front lawn that he knows for a fact Jerry has been working on recently. It’s probably safer that Morty jumped out when he did, because Rick’s forehead almost becomes acquainted with the windshield because of the rocky landing. 

It’s nighttime on Earth, the stars unwavering and bright as they normally are in the suburbs. He’s stayed in too many cities where smog and pollution clouded the sky constantly, and while it’s nice to indulge his whimsical love of space at times, now it feels like a slap in the face.

He just needs to put a gun in his mouth and blow out whatever part of him inflicts all this fucking misery on everyone he comes in contact with.

He trudges through the door, rubbing his forehead and wondering why he ever decided to abide by the rules of domestic life. Beth bustles to his side with a grin that is soured by Jerry sticking his head around the wall that blocks off the living room, thin lips twisted in disdain as he looks at Rick and his sweat stained clothes. 

Summer’s music plays from upstairs, crude lyrics and a fast beat floating down the stairs to mingle with Jerry’s disgusted, “Rick, what  _ happened?  _ Did you overthrow the government again? I might just have to put my foot down if-”

“I’m going to go take a shit,” Rick says, pushing past Jerry to head up the stairs, hesitating briefly by Morty’s door before heading down the hall to his own room. Summer’s music is even louder up here, threatening to give him a migraine before the evening is done. 

He hates this. He’s normally three beers into a good time downstairs by now, Morty complaining about getting him drinks but doing it all the same just to keep him in a good mood. Now he’s standing in the doorway of a cold room he rarely spends any time at all in, with no-one around to ease the conflict he’s feeling. Morty is probably crying his little heart out somewhere while no-one else in the family gives a shit. And Rick’s too much of a coward to be that dipshit that goes to check on him.

This might be the last straw. 

He humours the thought for a second, that Morty could try and kill himself, slit his wrists or jump off a cliff or hang himself in the closet, but he knows the kid better than that. 

In recent years Morty has become belligerent. Tough. Rick is almost proud of him, but this recent adventure just shows how quickly he regresses, how fast he can switch back to poor, insecure, dependant Morty.

Rick closes his door quietly, before sliding down it, feet knocking against emptied bottles as he buries his face in his hands. He’s a little bit drunk, but not nearly enough.

“Shit,” Rick breathes. “Shit. I guess I really fucked everything up, huh?” The full bottle he’s pulled from his drawer and is now talking to doesn’t say anything because he’s been taking a break from drugs for a while, but he’s on a roll now and he doesn’t want to stop. “Fucking… everyone in the universe is against me and they’re getting fucking smart about it.”

They’re using Morty now.

They’ve always been targeted as Rick and Morty, and now it’s Rick versus Morty. Cat and mouse and cops and robbers. 

“Where’s the fucking--the dumb memory gun?” Rick takes a moment to chug, draining half the bottle in one go before throwing it to the side so it shatters against the wall. “I can change everything. I can fix everything, if I just-”

And then, like lightning, inspiration strikes. Rick always has his best ideas drunk. 

Morty is in danger by existing. More accurately, he’s in danger by existing around Rick.

So what if he never did? He isn't going to kill the kid, but what if he could make it so he virtually didn't come in contact with Rick at all?  Rick already has a way of erasing memories, he already knows that tech like he knows the back of his hand. And if he can replicate it so it’s widespread and can affect multiple people at once. If he can target specific memories at once, memories of one person… the whole universe could forget about Morty, forget that Rick ever had a family at all.

It’ll be back to just being Rick. No Morty. 

Rick.

Alone but safe because his chest hurts and his head is pounding, and that doesn’t exactly signify well being. Morty will never be able to hurt him like this again, no-one will. And Morty wouldn’t get hurt anymore either. He can get rid of everything.

And of course that means the good times. The laughing and smiling and playing around, the emotions and the way that Rick didn’t always hate them. He’d have to leave soon after, of course, but there’s just one question that plays on his mind as he scribbles near incoherently on the whiteboard that hangs on his wall. 

Rick is protective because Morty has been his one constant for years. The only person that has stuck around. That protectiveness doesn't mean much; it just keeps Morty from getting killed, because Rick might-- _might_ \-- be too attached to get any sort of replacement. But there are things worse than murder to Morty, and he's stumbled on one of those things tonight.

He just might be protective enough to do the right thing, the moral thing--not that Rick has any stake in either of those titles--and have Morty forget him. He can always start over in a new dimension, maybe even pick up a new Morty while he’s at it-

_ Except he won’t. _

Morty is replaceable. Expendable. The thing the monster chews on instead of Rick, the person that lays on the wire so Rick can walk on top of him. His job is to make Rick’s life easier, but that hasn’t been true since the day he met the kid.

*

_ Rick is bored. Seeing Beth again, while pleasant at first, slowly fell away to the crushing feeling of normalcy as she introduced member after member of her little family.  _

_ Still, he knows that he has to stay on her good side at least a little bit so she has a reason to keep him around, give him somewhere to sleep where he’ll have access to his Morty whenever he needs him. Which, at least for a few months, will be every night as he finds some more updated government-issued tech for his ship. She’s a beauty, but she’s also made out of a car which has been steadily falling apart for years. A near-death situation had really forced his hand though, when she failed to start up while Rick was being chased. _

_ “...And this is Morty, dad,” Beth says so cheerily that he can hear flowers blooming just from the sound of her voice. “He’s twelve--my youngest.” _

_ Huh. Twelve. It’s younger than he had thought, but no matter: that just makes him more moldable. He likes the idea of a little kid following his every order--he had screwed up that chance with Beth, both by raising her to be a hellion and by leaving her like he did. This could be better, though, this could be different.  _

_ “Hi, grandpa!” Morty obviously stole the term from Summer, who had addressed him much the same when it was her turn to say hello. “Are you--what are you planning to do? On Earth at least.” _

_ Rick stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels. _

_ “Don’t be a drag, kid,” he says. “Call me Rick.” _

_ * _

The only issue with the plan is that, to make things like the memory gun, Rick needs Morty to get the equipment. The Galactic Federation, while mostly dismantled, has rebel operatives on nearly every planet Morty can think of, and some of their best scientists and soldiers (rightfully) blame Rick for their way of living being destroyed.

He settles back on the floor, idea scrawled on the board, and rests his head against the wall.

Summer’s music makes it impossible for him to hear into Morty’s room, but he imagines that the kid is in a similar position. He bets that Morty is doing what he does best: overthinking. Blinking his fucking Bambi eyes at the posters in his room and wondering where he went wrong, wondering if Rick felt sorry for him in the slightest. Rick does. 

And he hopes that Morty doesn’t know that. 

He hopes that Morty hasn’t put the dots together, he hopes that Morty is still the same idiot he has been for the last few years so he doesn’t realise that Rick put himself in Morty’s position. He hurt himself--not severely, and the alcohol has long since numbed the pain of penetration--so Morty didn’t have to go through that. It’s embarrassing, and what’s even more embarrassing is that Rick would go back and time and not change his decision at all.

Maybe Morty’s writing in his stupid little notebook that he doesn’t know Rick knows about. Maybe he’s drawing again, or maybe he’s screaming into his pillow; he could have left for all Rick knows.

The thought brings a sloppy frown to his face, and he can feel his brow furrowing exaggeratedly. What if Morty is… gone? Forever? Even if he’s not gone now, what if he decides to leave in the future, until Rick has no choice but to track him and hunt him, and drag him back by his hair? He doesn’t think he could cope with that. Rick leaves before other people can. He always has.

Because Rick left Diane because she was going to divorce him. 

*

_ “Please, Diane…” _

_ “You’re too drunk!” She’s crying and Beth is crying in her arms, her little knee badly burned and hastily wrapped in gauze because Rick had been stupid and let her out of his sight. Because he had been drinking. “All the time, Rick! It’s all the time! I can’t cope with this any more--what if Beth had died? What if you--if you--” _

_ She dissolves into thick, loud tears, too emotional to even speak. Rick is too drunk to speak, tongue all tied up and twisted in knots that extend to his stomach, anger and resentment and regret and sadness tangling together in a twisted dance.  _

_ “Diane-” he starts, but she speaks over him. _

_ “We have to leave, Rick,” she says, dabbing furiously at Beth’s blotchy face. “This isn’t the first time, and you said that you’d get help, but…” _

_ “I will, baby, Diane, I will,” he rushes to say, but she just shakes her head. She shakes her head and Rick stops talking like she’s got a special kind power over him, like she has the ability to bend him to her will. He hasn’t felt this out of control since he lived with his filthy, disgusting drunk of a father. _

_ “You won’t,” she replies shakily, like she expects him to fight her on this. But she’s right. _

_ And Rick leaves the next day. _

_ * _

He left before she could, because it has always been important to him that he gets to make the choices, that he gets to pull away and be the one to abandon people, instead of being a ten year old stuck in a rotting house alone with a father that never wanted him and a dead mother. 

He wonders if Beth remembers that, but he doesn’t think so. She’s always been good at seeing past all of the shitty, shitty things he has done in the past.

And he knows the abusive apple didn’t fall far from the abusive tree. He’s a chip off the chopping block, and he’s smart enough to see that he’s done the same thing to Beth that was done to him. He’s smart enough to see how badly that hurts Morty. But he hadn’t figured out the memory gun when he still had his family. He has a real chance now, to erase Morty’s memory, to erase one insignificant person from the memory of everyone in the universe.

He can put up with a few more days of Morty’s attitude, he decides. 

Just a few more days before this all goes away, and Rick is back to doing what he does best: surviving.

Barely surviving. 

He’ll make it, though. He knows he will, knows he can because he’s done this before. Packing up and leaving is just the Sanchez way. At least this will spare Morty from falling victim to Rick and his shitty decision making.

Rick is old. And he’s tired. 

Sleeping doesn’t bring comfort, but it doesn’t hurt him either.

So he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> couldn't be me rewriting half of this whole story - originally, it was going to be good feelings before plot. now, i wrote the last few lines of this story and immediately started crying. do with that information what you will.
> 
> flashbacks count as character development change my mind


	3. saw what i'd done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, THANKS TO GHOSTY FOR THE PLOT! we're finished for this doozy of an emotional whirlwind, but there will hopefully be more to come. if you can, i love lengthy reviews more than life itself, so go absolutely nuts in the comment section so i have something to distract myself with during quarantine.

“Morty! Adventure!”

Rick is cranky and hungover, and waking up comes at a hefty price. The memories of yesterday bombard him like his mind is actively against him, and he knows that Morty’s brain won’t be far behind his own when it comes to reminding him.

The words on his board are nearly indecipherable--would be entirely to anyone with any less experience when it comes to writing and thinking while drunk. But Rick is a genius, and he’s more than used to having and pursuing ideas while also managing to be a mostly-functioning alcoholic. He normally discards inventions that don’t make the mostly-sober cut; pants that put them on your legs by themselves, shoes that can turn into cowboy boots.

But this isn’t a dumb idea. Not at  _ all. _

It requires everything Rick holds close to whatever he has in place of a heart. Intelligence, trickery, the ability to make decisions that affect the universe in spectacular ways. Some people would normally feel hurt. Violated, even, because of what happened to them, but not Rick. Morty is hurt because he doesn’t have power, and that is what it had all been about. It had been about them proving that they had power over Rick, proving to the universe that he isn’t as strong as he looks.

The joke’s on them, though: Rick always has the power. 

Rick. Not Morty.

The adventures have been useless, Morty not nearly strong enough to survive without Rick, and Rick not nearly strong enough to let him die.

And now everyone fucking knows it.  _ Shit. _

He’s downstairs, trying to work through something resembling a plan while waiting for the kid to get out of the shower. Summer is at school and Beth is at work, and Jerry is probably out playing golf or something. The most important thing is that Morty isn’t at school, and they’re all alone.

There’s no Beth to mention that Morty is acting  _ sad  _ or  _ mopey,  _ and subtly suggest that Rick might need to treat him better. He probably knows better than Beth on that front, and he’s not in the mood to revisit his mild parenting mistakes he made with her. Her personal issues are always poorly disguised by Morty’s issues, in the sense that when she says “Dad, do you care about Morty at all?” she actually means, “Dad, do you care about me at all?”. It’s annoying as shit, and that’s when he doesn’t have the biggest scam in the galaxy to pull off.

Morty trudges through the door, hair wet and expression sullen; his eyes are dark and the bags under them are deep, and it doesn’t take Rick being a genius for him to know that he was up torturing himself all night over what they did together. What those shitty fucking aliens made them do together. 

He doesn’t blame the kid, but his anger--usually mellowed and subtle, but ever present--flares. 

Not at Morty, of course not; he can blame his grandson for a lot on a regular day, but he would rather die than try and spin this on him. It’s Rick’s responsibility to shoulder, and his responsibility to fix everything. Time travel would work just as well, he muses, and pushes a plate of eggs and bacon toward Morty. But he’s not a fan of hacks, and he is a fan of fixing problems when he actually decides to.

Time travel would just slap a band aid on the festering wound that is Rick and Morty. Nothing more.

“Wh-” Morty coughs, running trembling fingers through his damp curls. Rick looks away. “Where are we going today, Rick?”

He knows what the little bastard means.  _ ‘Are you going to get me hurt again today?’  _ he might as well have said, and Rick has to bite back a snarl. “Off world,” he says sharply. “Just need your brain waves.”

Morty bristles, but he knows the drill. If Rick says he needs back-up, they’re going to be going into a dangerous situation. If he needs an extra set of hands, they’re mining or harvesting something. If he says he just needs Morty’s brainwaves, they’re going to be in and out undetected to the best of their ability.

Rick might as well have said,  _ ‘I’ll keep you safe this time.’ _

“Okay,” he says, but Rick knows him. Rick knows him better than he knows his daughter or his granddaughter, knows him better than he knows Birdperson--knew Birdperson. Morty is struggling, and Rick can try to pick up the pieces but he’s done his part. Ages ago--years and years--he shot some Jellybean pedophile, made him blow up and he felt amazing doing it. That was how he protected Morty, not by  _ talking  _ to him and trying to be invasive. He took  _ real  _ action and shot the bastard that touched his grandson.

And now he’s that bastard, and he’s too stubborn to die (though not from lack of trying).

“Are you ready to go?” He asks, stiff and unsure like he has never been before. He doesn’t like this new tension between them, and doesn't like the fact that Morty is suffering silently instead of bitching and moaning and acting  _ normal _ .

“Yeah,” Morty pokes at his food with his fork once more, before standing up and rolling his shoulders, twisting his head from side to side. “Sure.”

He’s barely touched his food at all; the food that Rick spent time preparing no less because Beth had been gone by the time he had finished vomiting the other night’s binge into the toilet (and onto the tiles). 

Still, Rick doesn’t draw attention to it. He’s not that kind of person, not by a long shot. 

“We’ll stop by that food station on the way there,” Rick stands, shifting and shuffling his feet as Morty continues to watch him, sly and shifty as a fox. It’s unlike him, and Rick feels pinned by his gaze, like Morty can hear the erratic beating of his heart, smell the guilt and shame that are buried beneath his rib-cage. “The one you like. On Mars.”

Morty smiles, and Rick’s resolve hardens.

He has to do this.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Rick isn’t one for reading. Some people expect him to be, but he’s not  _ stupid.  _ Predictability is boring, and predicting things is kind of his specialty. Ergo, YA novels do nothing for him, and historical fiction does even less.

The emotions, the exploration into the duality of man… he doesn’t like to deal with it, doesn’t like to exert the energy to cope with the mind-numbingly awful decisions of the main characters, and explore their humanity. Normal people make mistakes. Rick doesn’t (Morty doesn’t count, he never counts, and it never would have happened if Morty just hadn’t been there with him), and he gets sick enough of people in real life making poor choices. He doesn’t have to pay money to read about it.

Still, he feels awfully trapped, like he’s in a book or movie and he’s a puppet for the audience. His life is unlikely, and he feels like he’s making a wrong choice for the sadistic amusement of others.

Not a bad choice necessarily… just not the right one. 

Still, he shakes the feeling off. 

Morty has been unusually quiet throughout their trip, Rick picking the occasional flower on Zeta-B so he can extract its juices later, as well as assorted mushrooms, frogs, and rocks. He’s still drinking the milk-shake that Rick had bought him on Mars, even though it’s probably disgusting now--he’s only had it for four hours after all. 

“Have we been here before?” Morty asks gently when Rick stoops down to eye some blue grass strands. 

“Nope,” Rick lies, and Morty just nods like he’s at all placated by that.

Morty came with him the first time he built the portal gun. He couldn’t exactly let the kid connect the dots between missing memories and this place though, in case he needed to go on another material run, so erasing it had been the only option. 

“So… what are we looking for?” He asks, and Rick raises a scornful eyebrow. 

“ _ I’m _ looking,” he corrects Morty. “You’re just here with me.”

“Right,” Morty says. “Right.”

Rick hates this version of Morty more than he could ever express with words, so he just clenches his hands into fists, and tears into the foliage of this planet with ferocity that he had forgotten he possessed.

He supposes that no Morty will be better than this.

  
  


* * *

  
  


He wonders if he’s going maybe just a bit too far by making the kid become involved, however unknowingly, in his own murder.

Well, murder in every sense but technical. What makes a man but his memories, after all?

Everything about Morty will change. His grandson has been glued to his hip since he was twelve, and that… that makes up a lot of memories. Even more feelings, but Rick isn’t quite dumb enough to consider trying to erase those. Worst case scenario ends with Morty sociopathic and broken, struggling to feel emotions he can’t remember ever feeling before, despite being an adult man. Memories are tricky, but Rick has been handling them for a while now, and knows how to cope with a worst case situation.

He wouldn’t know how to put his feelings back. 

So the memories will go but Morty will remember the times he felt afraid, angry, happy, confused, and while he won’t remember what caused them… it eases the burden on Rick’s shoulders that he’ll at least be leaving something with him.

Working in the garage is lonely, but necessary. The door is locked and Morty is somewhere on the other side of it, too unnervingly polite as of late to knock the door down, or demand to be let in. 

Now that Rick has his materials, he just needs to figure out a way to get it to work at a universal level. He had been toying with the idea of using the old Federation satellites, conveniently placed around most of the universe; if he connects the technology to just one of them, he can probably figure out a way to get most of them to follow along with it, which is a hell of a lot easier than visiting every individual planet in the universe. 

Easy; he’ll also have to include some kind of compulsion device that’ll convince everyone to tear up their newspapers, set fire to their conspiracy boards, and delete their files. That’s easy enough as well.

And with Morty, it’ll be so much easier. Erase memories that are even associated with Rick by conditioning the brain to attack memories that had words in them like Rick, grandpa, multiverse, portal. He wouldn’t need to fill a million vials, because Morty’s brain would destroy the pieces itself. It was foolproof.

Except it would be irreversible.

All’s well that ends well.

And Rick will be gone, their photos taken or burned or deleted, their family missing smaller chunks of memory as well that would be blamed on alcohol and stupidity, on the trauma of a dysfunctional family. It’ll be Rick, the single soldier, the one man army. Not Rick and Morty, the dynamic duo.

He’s getting used to the idea. Maybe he’ll even like it one day, look back and marvel at his own genius, his ability to turn away from the best chance at a real relationship he could have ever asked for.

So maybe he is a bit crazy, and maybe he isn’t asking for permission from Morty like he said he would, because he knows that the kid doesn’t really blame him. He isn’t truly, desperately afraid, of Rick, not deep down. 

It doesn’t feel all that great now, the accomplishment of building the single most universe-altering thing in his life dulled by him mourning the loss of his grandson, whom he has hurt. Whom he has lied to. Whom he has stolen from. Whom he has raped. This might be drastic, but it’s just the straw that broke the camel’s back, the situation that opened Rick’s blind eyes, helped him see them for what they really were. Toxic. Disgusting. Filthy.

_ Because Morty’s just some irrational attachment, right? _

Rick is lonely. And he’s used to it.

  
  


* * *

The gun is finished quickly. Too quickly. It makes Rick’s heart beat erratically in his chest, off-beat and jumping at the slightest of sounds, certain someone (Morty) will come in and smack the device (the weapon) from his hands.

It’s only been a few days, and time has moved simultaneously too quickly and too slowly. He’s been getting drunker and drunker steadily, and he’s been ignoring Morty who has been knocking nervously, having gotten over whatever issue he’s had with it previously. 

“Rick?” speak of the devil. Morty’s voice is muffled by the door between them, but Rick tries to save it, burn it into his mind. “Can we just talk? You’re acting all… weird.”

Like  _ Rick  _ is the one acting weird.

Morty has been crying in his room, Rick can hear it through his wall. He has shoved  _ everyone  _ in their family out, ignoring Summer’s offers to buy him drinks, and Beth’s attempts and finding out what happened. Even Jerry has been tossed to the side--though Rick is pretty sure he ruined Morty’s relationship with his father for good long before this ever happened. 

Earlier, Rick would have yelled at Morty to go away. But now… he has a plan to execute. 

“Go-” Rick coughs, trying to dislodge the feeling of nausea. “Go to your room and I’ll be up, okay? We can talk.”

“Really?” Morty sounds sceptical and he supposes that he really can’t blame the kid. He’s been turning Morty away since the incident, and it’s caused… issues. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ “Rick, I’m a person!” Morty is crying, his sobs echoing in the kitchen. Rick stands paralysed on the other side of the door, fingers gently wrapping around the locked door knob. “You took me on an adventure and I thought--I thought things would go back to normal, but you’re shutting me out! Like I’m just--just there so you can go on adventures.” _

_ Rick doesn’t say anything.  _

_ “I can’t believe you,” Morty says. “Am I supposed to apologise? Blame myself? Beg for you in all your infinite wisdom to forgive me?” _

_ Rick doesn’t have anything to say to him.  _

  
  


* * *

So Rick heads up the stairs.

And they seem larger than he remembers, taller and more numerous. The gun is in his hand, shaped similarly to the old one though it works a bit differently. There’s no turning back now. The rest of the family have been dealt with, and are sleeping off heavy tranqs in their rooms, though Morty probably thinks that they’ve gone off to do something, take advantage of the sunny weekend.

Morty’s door is ajar, and Rick makes sure to close it behind him. This will be quick , but Morty can be a slippery fucker when he wants to be and Rick is too sick and drunk to put up a chase. The lights are out, but it’s still daytime so the sun shines through the window, illuminating the room.

Rick’s hands remain behind his back as he approaches Morty who is standing by his desk, next to his bed.

“Hey-” Morty says, and Rick raises the gun. Fires.

And misses. Because instincts reign supreme and Rick has instilled the best instincts in the galaxy into Morty, his grandson capable of more than he realised. He could have shot again but seeing Morty angry made him freeze in spot for just a moment.

“Are you  _ kidding  _ me?” Morty asks, chest moving too quickly, up and down like a frail bird’s. “You would kill me? You would put a gun to my head and--and--”

“No, Jesus, Morty, no!”

“Then  _ what?  _ You were just--” realisation dawns on Morty’s face, but Rick’s arm remains steady, finger on the trigger. “You were going to wipe my memory.”

Rick doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t deny it either. His hand is shaking, just a bit, and Morty looks like he’s struggling to come up with words that properly express the betrayal that drips onto his face like tears.

“You promised we would talk about it, Rick,” Morty sucks in a deep breath, his voice warbling in a fragile, broken song. “You told me you wouldn’t, remember?”

Rick doesn’t know when Morty will stop being surprised by how disgusting he is. He doesn’t understand how he could have put the kid through the shit he has, and still be trusted and respected by him, erased memories or not. 

Still, it’s not like Morty knows his full plan. Thank  _ the lord  _ for small mercies.

“You’re not yourself, Morty,” Rick says smoothly, maybe too smoothly judging by Morty’s nearly imperceptible flinch. “It’s for your own good, kiddo, trust me.”

“I…” Morty looks pained, his movements slow and deliberate as he lowers Rick’s hand. Rick goes willingly, the memory gun clasped loosely in his fingers. “I didn’t hate it, Rick, I promise. I’m fine, I’m--I’m okay.”

“Morty, you were fucking  _ crying,  _ what-”

“I just wasn’t crying because you touched me,” Morty says, loudly and sharply, the words cutting the air like a knife cutting through a human heart. Rick’s heart cracks just a little at the shattered look Morty has plastered on his face, but nothing in Morty’s expression gives away what he says next: “I was--I was crying because I  _ liked  _ it. Because I didn’t want to like it, but--but it’s like you said, the universe is just a fucked up place and we’re dipping our toes. That’s all.”

Oh. Out of everything Rick had been expecting--accusations, tears, anger--this had never been on the cards, and he flinches back like he’s been struck. 

Morty takes that as a signal to keep talking, his eyes filling with tears just as readily as they had when they were trapped in that fucking room. “I was crying because you took  _ care  _ of me, and you acted like you--like you loved me, and acted like you cared about me being hurt, or scared or safe! You  _ never  _ care about me like that on normal adventures, and I don’t--I don’t know what to do to get you to care about me like that again!”

_ Jesus Christ… _

“Morty…” Rick says carefully. “That isn’t what love is.  _ I’m  _ not what love is.”

_ “-Listen Morty, I hate to break it to you, but what people call "love" is just a chemical reaction that compels animals to breed. It hits hard, Morty, then it slowly fades, leaving you stranded in a failing marriage. I did it. Your parents are gonna do it. Break the cycle, Morty. Rise above. Focus on science-” _

The eyes are the windows to the soul--if you’re idiotic enough to believe in such an idea--and Morty’s soul is broken, the shards peeking through his attempt at acting normal. 

“How can you say that to me?” Morty asks, his voice a breath away from a whisper. “How can you stand there and say that, when you acted so nice and gentle: and it wasn’t because you care about me? You--you let me be  _ inside  _ you, so I wouldn’t get hurt. And I’ve been dreaming about--I’ve been wanting to let you in  _ me  _ so I can show you how I felt then. You could have just let me be hurt, but you  _ didn’t. _ ”

“Mort-”

“I wanted to hurt myself, Rick,” Morty cries, and he looks so broken and ashamed that Rick is almost taken aback. “I wanted to get hurt like that again, put myself in danger just so you would look at me like you did then. So you would--so you would be nice, and care about me, and love me. Do you know what that feels like? To want to surrender your autonomy, and everything that keeps you safe, just because you love someone so much that it hurts more when you’re distant?”

_ No,  _ Rick wants to say, but there isn’t time.

Because Morty kisses him. 

It’s sweet and innocent and does nothing but remind Rick of what he’s trying to accomplish here, why he needs to hide Morty away from the universe that will take that sincere, genuine goodness and twist and tear it apart. He realises, with full clarity at long last, that he’s a part of the universe too. Not just above the lot, but with them in the sadistic, insane cause of ruining one Morty Smith.

He should say no.

But Rick has always been an animal and Morty is the lamb he’s leading to the slaughter, trained and readied by his own hand, no matter how unaware Rick had been of it at the time. Maybe all of the adventures primed Morty for this, maybe this is truly, irrevocably Rick’s fault… but it’s just as easy to assume that Morty is choosing this because this is what he wants, because Rick is what he wants.

The thought is exciting and novel: for all the reasons people have wanted him in the past, this has never been one. Even with Diane, she came to him because he was the intelligent bad-boy she had dreamed of finding, and came back because he was good enough the first time.

The only thing Morty expects from him right now is to be gentle. And he’s more than happy to oblige when Morty tears away, eyes wide and fearful like he thinks Rick will be able to turn him away.

_ Not a chance. _

Rick surges forward once more, big hands wrapping around Morty’s skinny arms to pull him closer like he’s trying to absorb the kid into his bloodstream. He thinks he might succeed when Morty tilts his head, his mouth opening partially, letting Rick lick inside his mouth and possess him in the oldest way known to man.

He’s drunk.

He’s drunk and he knows this is wrong, knows that he shouldn’t let Morty pull him back onto the bed, a jittery mess of gangly limbs but still so confident that Rick won’t be the better person. Maybe he thinks it’s love--and,  _ fuck,  _ maybe it really is--but love like what Morty wants isn’t selfish. It isn’t corruptive, sinking poisonous talons into plump flesh, a vulture stripping meat from a carcass. Maybe Morty has it wrong--love is a disease and Rick is a sick, sick man, who can’t resist crawling onto him, disgust sinking deep into his bones.

This is something he hadn’t wanted to do, but what the fuck else can he do?

Morty is weak. He’s vulnerable. He’s  _ Rick’s _ , for better or worse. 

“Please, Rick,” Morty’s eyes are brimming with emotion, and Rick averts his. “Just  _ love  _ me.”

  
  
  
  
  


Rick does.

  
  
  
  
  
  


He loves Morty, even if it’s just because time is running out ( _ tick, tock _ ,  _ Ricky-boy _ ) and Morty is desperate, clinging to him with all the strength in his small body (but not as small as he was, no, and Morty is grateful for the extra inches that make him feel less like a predator). He reminds himself that Morty is an adult now, that he can make his own choices, but he doesn’t know if that’s even true anymore. 

The world has truly turned upside down, he thinks, kissing Morty’s neck roughly, barely relishing in his gasps and whines when he nips too roughly. He’s long since let go of the memory gun, now doing everything he can to burn Morty into his own memory, greedy fingers roaming Morty’s body like he’s never felt it before.

It feels good. It had felt good then as well, even if Rick had been a bit too hasty, with too little preparation and too much tension in his body. Now he doesn’t know if he’s ever been this unwillingly relaxed, alcohol drowning the parts of him that want to protest. 

“I want you inside me,” Morty moans, soft and slow and so sweet it makes Rick’s teeth ache. Rick hesitates, but Morty urges him forward, his heels digging into the small of his back, until Rick is pressing against Morty’s waiting, willing hole. “I’m ready,” Morty pants. “I’m ready, I  _ promise _ .”

There’s a million things that Rick could say; he could wonder when Morty could have possibly found the time or wherewithal to do anything in the way of preparing himself. He could pin Morty to the bed even more firmly, growl in his ear, demean him and demand he explain in beautiful, disgusting detail the lengths he went to in order to prepare himself for a good, hard fucking.

But Morty wants Rick to love him, and that doesn’t mean cruel, harsh words, even if he has no doubt it’ll get Morty off just as well.

He supposes it doesn’t really matter, in the end. But he’s a sucker for Morty’s big eyes and bigger heart, and he wants to give the kid what he wants just this once, even if Morty is just sticking his fingers in the cookie tin.

He’ll get in trouble sooner or later, but now--Rick can tell--Morty is hungry for something sweet and sugary, something that will rot his teeth, something that fills him with daring adrenaline and childish pride.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Rick says, and he’s never said that to anyone else before. Even with people he’s cared about--maybe not loved, but respected--they want him hard, want him rough and deep and dirty, they want to pretend that he doesn’t care about them at all. Morty muffles a whimper at his words. He wants to pretend that Rick loves him, wants to pretend that Rick can feel the same longing in his chest; maybe he’s not even pretending.

Maybe Rick is the one pretending; the disgust somehow makes him want it more, and a small part of him can’t believe he’s never tried this taboo before because sin is something that suits him like a second skin.

He pushes in, Morty’s warm, wet (the kid hadn’t been kidding when he said he was ready) hole, and Morty sobs, a broken, ragged sob that sounds like the cracking of a heart when Rick presses in further, inch by inch. He doesn’t let go of Rick’s shoulders, his legs still wrapped tightly around Rick’s waist, and Rick is enamoured.

He hates himself and he loves the feeling, wants Morty to spit on him and slap him, and call him a dirty old man because this is bliss if he’s ever felt it, pain and pleasure, disgust and desire. 

He considers pulling out, leaving the kid a mess of lube and cum and tears, stealing his memory and breaking free of him, but the thought is banished when Morty pulls him down and kisses the breath from his lungs.

Rick has fallen.  _ Hard.  _ And he'll happily crash and burn as long as Morty is there beside him.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Later, they’re entangled in the sheets, their chests heaving with exertion, Morty’s eyes wet, Rick’s cock still nestled between his thighs. Rick tilts his head up, staring at the blank canvas of the ceiling, desperate for a cigarette or a drink, or anything that will make this hazier, a terrible dream to be forgotten.

Morty’s head lays on his chest, his breathing slow and deliberate as he catches his breath. Rick holds his. 

“Morty?” he asks, gentle and calm. His arm is falling off Morty’s small bed and his old body aches. His heart and brain hurt worse though, a punishment, a price to pay.

“Yeah, Rick?” Morty tilts his head up, eyes dark and deep like pools that Rick could drown himself in mercilessly. Sometimes he forgets the kid’s name--full name that is. Mortimer. The Dead Sea. It’s a stuffy name but one that suits him: he appears shallow, weak, but he knows his way around death and he’s deeper than he looks.

If it weren’t for Rick, Morty would have never grown into his name. 

“I love you.”

It’s as true a sentence as Rick can make, and he knows that Morty can see his sincerity on his face, the parts of him that really do love the kid shining through spectacularly. 

“Rick, I…” Rick’s arm reaches up, his fingers no longer brushing the carpet though the handle of the gun is still firm and weighted in his sweaty palm. “I lo-”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Rick doesn’t get to hear the end of that sentence. He can’t say he regrets it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And he’s gone. Alone at last.

Somehow, the feeling of freedom isn’t as comforting as it should have been.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Morty is twenty-two, and he’s missing someone.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He doesn’t know who, but he can guess that he’s (it’s always a he, Morty can feel it in his bones) the person that fills in the blanks of his childhood, the one that dots the missing holes in his memory, pervasive and present to this day. The doctors all said it was trauma--just the mind’s way of protecting itself, you know? Just another defence mechanism born from a lonely and abusive childhood. 

But Morty knows better.

He knows that he’s seen worlds that he can never explain, has found the drawings of aliens and planets that he has never seen before but still cause warm feelings to stir in his chest. 

He found his diary when he was eighteen, thrown in a fire that was burning in his backyard, along with some old photographs and notes. He doesn’t know who did it, but he knows it was done for a reason.

Morty knows one thing with absolute certainty as well: the man will be back.

He knows because he’s still losing time now, waking up in his room after forgetting the entirety of a day. It’s nothing compared to what’s missing from his childhood. It’s just a day, every year since he was eighteen. And now it’s his birthday again, the one day that he’s forgotten each year without failure.

So he turned down plans. Presents. Parties.

And now he’s waiting, sitting alone on his bed, staring at the wall--though he can’t exactly tell what he’s looking for.

Until he does. And there’s a green, swirling vortex in his wall that should scare Morty, but instead feels familiar. 

A stranger steps out of it.

“I’ve missed you,” Morty says, and the stranger doesn’t hesitate to smile, old and haggard but still soft in a way that Morty knows is just for him. He doesn’t look shocked or surprised that Morty has been expecting him, and Morty can tell that he’s heard that same phrase a million times before. Oh well. He’ll try and say something different next time.

(It’s a laughable thought, but he can try). 

“I’ve missed you too, Morty,” the man says, offering his hand. Morty takes it without hesitation. “Are you ready?”

Morty has every reason to be afraid, but he isn’t. 

“I love you,” he says brazenly. It’s true, even if he doesn’t know how or why, and he finds his mind flooding with an eerie calm as he waits for the stranger’s response. 

The stranger stops dead in his tracks, the green glow behind him casting his face in shadow when he turns to face Morty. 

“Yeah," he says. "I know."

And, for just a while, Morty feels whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think the ending was more bittersweet because my cousin said "bro they're already depressed, be nice". the original ending was: Morty is twenty-two, and he's missing someone.
> 
> i hope you guys really loved it, i tried to keep the characters really true to themselves, considering that we haven't scene a scenario like this in the show ever. it was a lot of work, especially considering this entire chapter was rewritten in just a few days in order to better align with my vision, and hopefully Ghosty's!
> 
> see you on the next story <3

**Author's Note:**

> on a happier note, i have a patreon now! if you wanna get sneak peeks and tidbits of original works and fanworks, commission discounts and more, click the link [HERE](https://patreon.com/bloodrunsred). if you even want to pledge me a few dollars or anything like that so i can update my crappy 2015 laptop soon and give you guys faster update times (it keeps crashing smh), i'd appreciate it more than i can possibly say.
> 
> if y'all wanna commission a story, find my tumblr [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/post/188422662476/writing-comissions) or just send me a message! i love to chat with you guys :))
> 
> stay bright and stay beautiful, and i'll see you on the next story soon!


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